Forget Joe Dumars, I'll send my resume straight to the big man himself -- Tom Gores. It will read as follows:
Hey Tom
Now that you're the head dude of the Palace, Pistons, and all that, I wanted to run a couple things by ya, bro. First, obviously you didn't know what the hell were getting into with the Pissed-ons. It appears that dumb heiress broad Karen Davidson was smarter than you thought. How else to explain her selling you a load of goods like that team? No prob, my brother, everybody screws up once in a while.
But you need a coach. I can help you out there. My qualifications? None. Zero. Nada. I wouldn't have a clue what to do with that rag-tag bunch. But hey, neither did Lawrence Frank, or the guy before him, and the guy before him. It doesn't even matter. Those clowns aren't going anywhere any year soon. If you're half as smart as your PR department and the local media says you are -- you already know that.
I still can't figure out why you dumped Frank, frankly. Paying a dude 3.7 million large for doing nothing doesn't sound like the best of plans to me -- especially when God himself couldn't have got that team into the playoffs this year.
But tell ya what, TG. I'll cut you some slack. I'll take the job for a measly 2 mil a year. That's a bargain by today's NBA coaching standards. Better yet, seeing as how you're originally from the hood, I'll go you one better.
Get rid of that electric company and change the hill back to Pine Knob, along with letting folks bring in their own coolers again so they can party like in the old days -- and I'll take over that sad-sack bunch at 2, or is it 3? Chumpionship Dr. at half the price. A paltry 1 million a year. Where you gonna beat a deal like that, dude? Hell, you probably spend more than that on your hair.
Can I whip the Pistons into championship contenders in a year or two? Of course not. Are you nuts? But nobody else is going to do it either, and they'll want a lot more money.
Besides, some of those "promotions" your people have been advertising lately are really lame. No wonder you barely fill half the seats. There's a better way. I know this girl who's tapped into a network of, shall we say "exotic dancers". Get her on board, and her people will put on a show that will pack every seat in the house. The customers wouldn't care how bad the team was on the floor. Let those girls roam the aisles, and I guarantee you'd never see an empty seat again. Of course, no kids would be allowed, and you might have some 'splainin to do to the league office, but hey, you've got people that can handle such minor details.
So let's do it this way. I'll give you 2 weeks to think it over. The siren song of another riding season is already calling out to me and my Harley. If you expect me to give that up, I need a commitment from you in short order. Once I get caught up with the wind in my face again..... well, don't say I didn't give you a chance. Snooze, ya lose.
Like you, I'm a little picky about who I give my phone number out to. When you want to contact me, call sports editor Jeff Kuehn at the Oakland Press. You'll quickly find out he's the REAL head dude/mover and shaker when it comes to sports in this town -- and he knows how to get in touch with me. No offense, but yours truly is a little skeptical when you California folks come back to Michigan with a bazillion dollars and start throwing your financial weight around. But in time, if you convince me you're a trustworthy and reliable kind of guy that knows when to keep him mouth shut -- I'll give you a phone number that will reach me personally. However, you have to prove yourself in a big way before you earn THAT status. Besides, Jeff has better things to do than relay your messages.
It's up to you. Personally, I couldn't care less. I've got better things to do than fly all over the country babysitting a gang of tall skinny dudes that think they can play basketball. But in the neighborly spirit of Michiganders, I'm willing to suck it up and give you a hand in your time of need. Just trying to help out.
Hope to hear from you soon. Don't mess around, man. The weather's looking good and the sweet song of the pipes is getting louder -- and harder to fight off.
Respectfully
John Leach
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